Forget Neverland
by goodgriefsebastian
Summary: Pre-Dark One Rumpelstiltskin: Rumpelstiltskin recalls his childhood in Neverland, and as he indulges in a bottle of rum, he makes an unsettling discovery about an intimate friend who had also once inhabited its dark terrains.


_Forget Neverland_

**~O~**

Rumpelstiltskin made the mistake of ordering a bottle of rum.

_Wine-dark. In Neverland, the sea is always wine-dark._

The tavern was empty, and as he sat by himself at the bar with the bottle of rum, he produced a small, rounded canvas and, with lotus-root fingers that always shook, began to cross-stitch. Cognizant of the barkeep's meandering eyes, he inclined his slight, spindly shoulders and quietly, but not meekly, absorbed the stares.

Eyeing the canvas, the barkeep bluntly inquired, "Why is the water _black_?"

Involuntarily, Rumpelstiltskin flinched, and with tawny eyes that were sandwiched between dark, pronounced circles and soot-black lashes particular to his peculiar kind of attractiveness, shot the barkeep a fretful look.

"Well…?"

Inwardly, Rumpelstiltskin answered, _In Neverland, the sea is always wine-dark._ Outwardly, however, he lied. "Must be the rum," he replied with a stifled, uneasy laugh. "Muddles my eyesight."

This innocuous rejoinder disappointed the barkeep.

"…I weave tapestries, too, if you're curious."

The barkeep shrugged, uninterested, and began to polish a set of steins. Rumpelstiltskin, relieved to be forgotten, lifted the bottle of rum to his lips and drank his fill with an alacrity that suggested both an aversion to the liquor and a fondness for it, a kind of internal struggle that left his tongue like a walkway he was unable to traverse. Immediately, he was soaked in rum—its sharp sterile flavor pervaded his scraggily build and set him ablaze, and also enlivened inside of him something that was not lost, but hidden: his feelings of longing.

Automatically, his eyes roved to his needlework.

Stitched across the canvas was a verdant splatter of land amidst a wine-dark sea—Neverland. To the north of the island was Skull Rock, with its towering, circular dome, and to the east of the island was Mermaid Lagoon, with its limpid depths and waterfalls, and finally, to the south of the island was the Neverwood, where two vague little figures frolicked amongst the foliage.

_Kiki and Ru_, reminisced Rumpelstiltskin, suddenly nostalgic for something that was stone-dead. _Lost Boys and their curious nicknames. Tootles. Nibs. Slightly. Kiki. Ru. _Ru: Rumpelstiltskin, the thirteen-year-old Lost Boy. Ki: Kiki, his fifteen-year-old bosom friend. Both abandoned by their fathers. Both heavy with sodden loneliness.

Gingerly, he stroked the stitches.

To Rumpelstiltskin, cross-stitching was a medium for memory—

His fingers glided to the north. _Skull Rock, where Kiki and I uncovered the skimpy remains of buried treasure—two moonstone rings. Mine was the blue of forget-me-nots; his was the red of bleeding-hearts._

Then, to the east. _Mermaid Lagoon, where Kiki and I dove for oysters and abalone, our ears stuffed with beeswax as a means of evading the hypnotic snares of mermaids and sirens._

And finally, to the south. _The Neverwood, where Kiki taught me how to sword-fight. To always exercise good form—in a duel, that is. But I had no talent for sword-fighting; he'd always let me win._

—that added vim and permanency to his past.

Rumpelstiltskin pictured Kiki, and he pictured him with the rare kind of clarity that three decades of separation rarely afford anyone, regardless of rank, or wealth, or power. _His lanky figure. A lean face framed by jumping eyebrows and high cheekbones._

Happy, albeit brief—his lips unfolded into a smile.

_His pale, spring-water eyes._

Suddenly, with unsettling forcefulness, images of Kiki shifted into flashes of Milah, and they nearly bulldozed Rumpelstiltskin off of his barstool—her tumbling tresses, her milk-skin. Her bleached eyes that had once told him _you could have died._

His lotus-root fingers began to shake, and they were always going to shake.

_Milah…?_

Bemused by the barrage of images, Rumpelstiltskin rose clumsily to his feet and lamented, _Have my feelings of guilt invaded Neverland, too, Milah? Am I without a sanctuary?_ He was grieved; he was repentant, and whatever it was that touched his lips (a smile?)—was grim and swollen with self-loathing. _I deserve it, sweetheart, I know._

Outside, the sky was heavy with the cries of mortal men, and as Rumpelstiltskin transitioned his gaze to the window, the clouds burst.

_You're gone, but you're everywhere_.

Milah pervaded Baelfire's bedtime stories, and the songs Rumpelstiltskin sang as he harvested, weaved, and spun; she lingered as the sharp bite in a swig of rum or whiskey, and as the somber dilution of watercolors on papyrus; she endured as the fiery quip in an argument, and as the unruly verve of a brimming tavern.

She was everywhere, and now Kiki persisted, too, as a kind of aftertaste of Milah.

Wearily, Rumpelstiltskin adjusted his satchel and placed his canvas within its leather confines, and as he corked up the unfinished bottle of rum, he thought, _Oh, Milah, if I'd been braver, I would've taken you to Neverland. You'd have loved it. For leisure, meadows of blue-eyed grass, and for activity, sword-fighting and diving for melo-melo pearls. _

Donning his cloak in anticipation of the torrents outside, he bent his steps towards the threshold of the tavern.

_You'd have loved Kiki, too, and his pale, spring-water eyes._

Suddenly, as a penultimate blow to his pummeled psyche, the eyes mutated.

They hardened; they glowered. They cackled; they derided. They snubbed; they shamed. They were not Kiki's eyes—and yet, they were his eyes, and they frightened Rumpelstiltskin nearly out of his senses. _The derision! Just like Hordor. Just like Milah. Just like…_

Retrieving his canvas from his satchel, he uttered again, _Pale, spring-water eyes. Pale, spring-water eyes. Pale, spring-water eyes and a—_

His lips parted, and he let the canvas slip from his fingers.

—_winsome grin._

The tavern was silent; his thoughts, however, were stentorian, and with torrential rapidity his memories unraveled as colorless parodies of themselves, as parts of a play contorted by his implacable self-loathing.

_[The Coward enters, unbathed and in rags. He is repellant and gangly, and he hobbles. Diffidently, he boards the Jolly Roger; within seconds he is relegated to the status of the hapless jester.]_

_The Coward: I…I remember you. From the bar._

_[The Captain appears. Poised and debonair, he flashes the Coward an arch smile that all but gleams in the sunlight.]_

_The Captain: It's always nice to make an impression. Well, where are my manners? We haven't been formally introduced. Killian Jones. Now, what are you doing aboard my ship?_

With hands atremble, Rumpelstiltskin retrieved his needle from his satchel.

_[The Coward is superlatively stupid—he is unable to barter for his wife's release; his ineloquence amplifies his impotency, and his wife remains in fetters.]_

_The Captain: …If you truly want your wife back…_

_[The Captain tosses the remains of a rusted sword at the feet of the Coward.]_

_The Captain: All you have to do…is take her._

_[The drawers of the Coward darken; urine trickles down his legs, and as he staggers to the darkest corner of the ship, he vomits.]_

Affectedly, Rumpelstiltskin cackled; after all, were not fools supposed to incite laughter? His lips, however, quivered, and his eyes were lachrymose.

_The Coward: Please, sir. What am I going to tell my boy?_

_[Pale, spring-water eyes penetrate the Coward; the flaccid fool whimpers.]_

_The Captain: Try the truth—his father's a coward. _

Slowly, encouragingly, Rumpelstiltskin pressed the needle into his thumb, and then urged himself, _Forget Neverland._

Only images of Kiki, his first friend, his truest friend, dissipated. Killian Jones remained.

First with embarrassment, and then with an easing kind of awareness, Rumpelstiltskin recalled his initial attraction to Jones and its involuntary nature—whether inside of a tavern or aboard the Jolly Roger, Killian Jones was Kiki, and that is where the attraction had originated, with what the pirate had once been, and not with what he now was.

But still, loss had conquered Rumpelstiltskin, and he began to sob; repeatedly, his chest jerked forward as if to expel what ailed him—his heart—and his shoulders matched its rhythm with somber forcefulness.

_C'mon, Ru_, he willed himself again, _forget Neverland. Forget. Forget._ _Forget._

He did not forget.

_-Fin_

**~O~**

Author's Notes (**PLEASE READ**):

Firstly, my depiction of Neverland is similar to J.M. Barrie's version, and not OUaT's, but I figure that's alright. :)

Anyway, it is unlikely Hook and Rumpelstiltskin were friends as children, but as far as I'm concerned, it's the only way they'll ever be able to bury the hatchet. I'm all for a Hook/Rumpel reconciliation. (And yes, I wish Milah hadn't died; she would've made a superb Hook.) The burning question is, would Hook and Rumpelstiltskin have recognized each other decades later? Maybe, maybe not.

Obviously, Rumpelstiltskin's memories of his encounter with Hook are very warped, and I wrote it like that to best convey his self-loathing. Also, forgive his cross-stitching; canonically, his textile skills are more professional than recreational, but who knows what he did in his spare time?

I referenced Homer's _The Odyssey_ twice: "wine-dark" is a Homeric allusion, as are the sirens and beeswax. All references to Neverland and the Lost Boys are from J.M. Barrie's _Peter and Wendy_.

Thanks for giving my ficlet a chance! :) Reviews are appreciated!


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